


Come Hell or Holy Water

by lighthouse_at_sea



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mild Gore, Pre-Relationship, reimagining of the holy water scene, what if, what if Aziraphale doesn't show up to give Crowley the thermos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 19:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20263255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lighthouse_at_sea/pseuds/lighthouse_at_sea
Summary: It's 1967 and Crowley didn't need Aziraphale. Didn't need him at all. He was going to get his holy water, and it was all going down tonight.





	Come Hell or Holy Water

**Author's Note:**

> Another Good Omens fic. Should probably be working on my first one but I had the idea and went for it.

Yellow swaths of light passed overhead and neon nightlife passed left and right as Crowley weaved through the clogged streets of Soho. A near miss with a man holding a briefcase, another's ringing shouts fading in the distance. The demon leaned harder on the pedal, the subsequent whir of the engine and groan of metal not far behind.

There wasn't a soul on the road when Crowley cut off the engine with the barest flick of his wrist.

Face sunken and eyes looked forward unseeing, he breathed in an unnecessary breath.

A hundred and five years...

With a harsh sniff, he broke away from the barely-formed train of thought. Some things you just had to do yourself.

One long leg followed another, and Crowley stood up with all the sway of a woman-shaped-being who had spent the twenties reveling in America's Era of Wonderful Nonsense. He should hope so, as that was a very apt comparison.

Popping open the trunk revealed mostly shadows, and a bit of fumbling revealed a pair of sturdy rubber gloves, a section of plastic hose, and a small metal canister whose label proclaimed "hazardous waste – keep container closed at all times," presumably with the functionality to match.

Slipping the gloves and hose in his coat pockets, he picked up the container and set off.

He flitted through narrow alleyways with ease, only slowing to a casual amble when he was shoved into the open expanse of church property. Crowley made his way to the entrance steps, stopping when the feeling of too-hot and too-bright came to a head. Unbidden, memories flickered into being of the last time he had done this. Flayed and burnt feet were barely an afterthought when it came to that night. A hand brushing against his, that look of wonderment that kept him up at night.

Crowley scowled and set the container down. It made a loud clang against the pavement. He straightened up and turned outwards. His eyes whipped back and forth behind his lenses, waiting for the scene he had set to unfold. When his crew emerged from points B, C, and D to his point A, he grinned something wicked. He didn't need an angel.

As the three approached, he walked down the steps to meet them.

Sally spoke first. Quick on her feet, known in the London underground for a string of untraceable thefts.  
And they only knew about it since her pride would swallow her alive someday.

"Okay, boss. Now tell us, what are we here for?"

Her voice and posture were casual, but Crowley saw the sharpness in her eye.

He smirked and clapped his hands together.

"Alright! Here's how it's going down. Inside that church is a basin, and it is filled with water. What you're going to do, is fill _this_ with the water and do _not_ spill a drop. Come back out, hand it over, and the money is yours."

Crowley lifted up the metal container and offered it up to Sally. She stared.

Crowley looked past her at the other two.

Spike adjusted the coil of rope on his shoulders and Lance Corporal Shadwell tilted his head, brow furrowing and lips drawn tight.

Voice now tinged with disbelief and anger instead of professional indifference, Sally spoke again. "I'm sorry, are you telling me we spent six weeks of negotiations to steal some water?"

Crowley's gaze hardened, and his arm was getting tired. "Yes. Now unless you're ready to hand back your hundred and forget the rest, I suggest you get moving."

"Well, I won't be handing in my share," Spike suddenly spoke up, and he stepped forward to take the container.

"Thanks, Spike," Crowley said, stretching out his wrist and looking pointedly at his companions.

Sally puffed up. "Whatever. Count me in."

Crowley lowered his hand to his side and turned his attention to Shadwell, who had yet to put forth his own declaration of forging onwards.

"Holy water? I don't suppose this is to aid you in the battle against witchcraft? Is it now, Mr. Crowley?"

"What I am doing with the water is not your concern. All you need to know is that after this, you'll each be 200 pounds richer. Is that acceptable Lance Corporal?"

A beat. Shadwell nodded.

Crowley smiled and fished out the hose, handing it to the man. "Pleasure doing business with you. All of you. Now off you go."

* * *

Shadwell put away his lock-picking kit and was able to see Sally land softly onto the church floor. When she moved away from the rope, he began his own slow descent.

As he shuffled down, he pondered the absurdity of it all. Of course, he was no stranger to what most people viewed as absurdity, but this felt different. What man wasn't man enough to steal his own holy water to fight against the forces of witchcraft and the devil? A man where money was no object, apparently, but there was something else.

Sally had already pulled out a torch when he reached the floor and he watched where it fell as she spun it around. The beam of light joined the watery moonlight from the stained glass windows, illuminating empty pews, the pulpit, and dark brick walls.

"Over here."

A basin rested against a pillar. Aye, that looked about right.

"It should have been diamonds. Crystal chalices..." Sally moaned as they reached the basin.

Shadwell looked down. With the torch, the water shined a bright white. Holy water. Probably deadly to a whole army of the damned. In the right hands, it could be as valuable as any jewel-encrusted goblet. But in the wrong hands… The gears in his brain turned. Mr. Crowley… No, he couldn’t be.

"Well, let's get this over with."

Shadwell nodded and fished out the hose. Sally set down the container and they used gravity to aide in the transfer from one container to another. He watched as the holy water drained.

"Stop." Sally commanded, and he pulled up the hose. A few drops splashed up, but they landed back in the basin. Sally tugged up the hose from the other end and screwed the lid of Mr. Crowley's container. The Lance Corporal couldn't help but read the words on the side. "Hazardous Waste." Hazardous only to those of wicked intent, perhaps.

Sally picked up the container and immediately headed back to the rope. Shadwell looked down into the basin, where a small pool of water remained, now dark without the torch.

Making up his mind, he pulled out his flask, finishing off the whiskey with a few sips. He dunked it in, watching the holy water bubble and rush in.

"Shadwell, you coming!?"

He lifted his flask out of the basin, tightening the lid.

"Aye, I'll be right over."

He slipped the innocent little flask into his pocket, patting the other for the pin.

* * *

Not twenty minutes later, Crowley was keeping a cool face as his team came to a halt in front of him.

"Well?"

Spike set down the container on the ground at his feet and a tell-tale slosh could be heard from within.

Crowley nodded. "Wonderful. Now, for your payment."

He whipped out the wad of bills and counted out two hundred. Spike stepped up and took his share. The same for Sally.

"Pleasure doing business with you. You know where to find me if you need me." She walked away towards the street, a few steps behind Spike.

Crowley turned his attention to Shadwell and counted out the last two hundred. Shadwell watched with his hands in his pockets and a small smile on his face. When the money was offered, he slowly reached out, folding it up and glancing back up at Crowley when it was safely in his front pocket.

"Sure you haven't heard of the witchfinder army, Mr. Crowley? Holy water. I must admit, a pin has been a better weapon in my experience, but I'm open to new ideas."

"Sorry, can't say I have. Now, last time you said that you'd be willing to offer your services. What type of price range were you thinking?" 

Shadwell pulled out a flask, taking a long sip.

"Let's save business talk for later, shall we? Care for a drink to celebrate a job well done?"

Crowley looked down at the silver flask. The job _had_ gone rather well, hadn't it?

But as his hands wrapped around the flask, his mind began to scream. Great Satan's Pit the container burned and burned. The slight moisture of the flask's condensation felt like pins and needles stabbing through muscle and flesh and -

"Aren't you going to take a drink, lad?"

Crowley looked up in horror at Shadwell, who had stepped closer while his attention had been focused elsewhere. The Lance Corporal's soft voice and lilting accent did nothing to stop Crowley from being absolutely terrified at the man in front of him, and so he did the only reasonable thing in such a situation.

The flask sailed through the air and landed a few meters away with a sharp clang, holy water spilling into a puddle on the pavement.

"Wrong choice, witch."

Sight blurry from tears and hand stinging, Shadwell's first punch landed smoothly and Crowley doubled over. But as Shadwell reached for his pocket for Satan knew what, Crowley pushed aside his pain. Quick as a viper, he got in a punch of his own, then another, not holding back his occult strength. He thought he could feel the crack of something underneath soft skin. Shadwell fell like a sack of bricks. Sucking in deep, measured breaths, Crowley reached for his pocket and pulled on the rubber gloves he should have been wearing this whole time. How could he have been so stupid? With trembling hands, he yanked one glove over the wound, tears once again pricking up as the rubber scraped against the mangled wound.

"Crowley!"

Crowley whipped his head up at the voice. One he hadn't heard in almost thirty years. There, stepping away from around a corner and rapidly approaching the church steps, was Aziraphale.

"Crowley, did you just beat that man up?"

Crowley scowled and raised his voice to carry across the shrinking distance. "Serves him right, he just tried to kill me!"

A shift in the corner of his eye made him glance back. He yelped. Shadwell had made it up and was now at the unguarded container of holy water, making quick work of the cap.

"Shadwell, stop! I can pay you! Double? Triple!?"

"All the riches of the world couldn't make me let a witch go. Now, let this be a lesson for you. No one pulls the wool over Lance Corporal Shadwell's eyes and gets away with it."

The water spilled onto the stairs.

Crowley stumbled backwards off the steps, not having anywhere else to go. Not that it would matter in a handful of seconds. In freefall, he squeezed his eyes shut.

Instead of a hard slam into the pavement and a watery grave, he was met with a warm body pressed against him and strong arms wrapped around him.

Peeking open one eye, he saw Aziraphale's face, glaring ahead. Crowley turned to see Shadwell quickly down the steps, feet splashing in the puddles dripping down. Crowley flung his arms around Aziraphale's neck to help Aziraphale support his weight. And maybe a bit in fear.

"You think you can save this witch? He deserves death for his infernal wiles!"

And then Aziraphale was heating up. In another plane, Crowley saw wings unfurl, the blinking of a thousand eyes, and wrath. So much wrath and warmth.

"You just attempted to kill my best friend."

Crowley slammed his eyes shut as light exploded into being.

Shadwell screamed.

Aziraphale's arms around him shook from exertion. Crowley clung on tighter.

When the light faded away, Shadwell was a pile on the ground. Still alive, but he definitely didn't have much else going for him. The principality was still glaring forward when Crowley turned to look up at him, but Aziraphale's gaze softened as he tilted his head down to properly reproach the demon in his arms.

"My dear, what on Earth were you _thinking_?"

Aziraphale's face was full of anguish and suddenly, Crowley was full of shame. And he couldn't even push himself away since they were still standing in a blasted puddle of holy water. He looked away and Aziraphale sighed. They began to move out towards the street, Crowley being jostled slightly with every step, but never in danger of slipping. As he might never get another chance, he buried his head into the soft fabric of Aziraphale's coat.

Aziraphale carried him two blocks away, and when they stopped near a bench, Crowley pushed himself away with as much dignity as he could. Aziraphale sat down and Crowley joined him, sitting as far away from possible and staring forward at the street. A red car passed by. Crowley watched until it turned the corner.

"Are you okay?"

As much as letting Aziraphale know how badly he fucked up made him want to sleep for another century, maybe the angel would help. Silently, he proffered his injured hand.

Gingerly, Aziraphale tugged the glove off and sucked in a breath at what remained underneath. And this was just from the barest drops of condensation…

"Crowley…"

"Say it. Go ahead, I know you want to."

Crowley turned to glare at Aziraphale, who was still taking in his blistery appendage.

"Say how I'm an idiot and I'm just going to get myself killed."

Aziraphale didn't look at him. Instead, he miracled the glove away and gently cupped Crowley's hand. The wound didn't close, but it felt more numb than painful when Aziraphale's powers stopped flowing through it. 

"Well, you do have a point," Aziraphale finally commented.

Crowley yanked his hand away.

"It would have worked if that idiot Shadwell hadn't been a raving lunatic!"

"And that's why I don't want to see you do it again."

Crowley's face screwed up in anger. "What do you mean by that?"

And then Aziraphale was reaching into his coat. He pulled out a thermos.

"Don't go unscrewing the cap."

Crowley froze. He couldn't possibly. After all this time.

"Angel…"

"After what I just saw, I can't let you risk your life again. I should have given it to you earlier. If I hadn't come when I did… you'd… that man…"

Crowley wrapped his good hand around the thermos. It was slightly warm to the touch. The plastic lid reflected the pale streetlight from above.

Then he set it down at his feet.

"You were there. Nothing happened to me," Crowley said as he sat back up.

"That wouldn't have just been discorperation." Distress soaked into every word the angel didn't say.

Crowley knew. Satan, he knew.

"Then it was a good thing you were in the area."

Aziraphale's distressed gaze darted around. "I suppose it was."

"Thank you."

Aziraphale sucked in a gasp. Crowley met his gaze head on and dared to lean in a bit closer.

"The Bentley is just around the corner. Anywhere you'd like to go."

Crowley wanted to hit himself when Aziraphale looked away and frowned. He had ruined it. He _always_ ruined it.

"I miracled the holy water off of my shoes, but I wouldn't want to risk trailing it in."

Crowley leaned back.

"Right. Of course."

The two stared at their own respective middle distance.

"Goodnight, Crowley. Stay safe."

Crowley twisted back, but he found himself alone on the bench, Aziraphale having whisked himself away on invisible wings before he even had the chance to say goodbye. He pushed up his shades and rubbed at his eyes.

With nothing else left to do, he bent down to retrieve the thermos. When he took a better look, he could only huff in wry amusement. Tartan. Course it was.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
